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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27943481">sweet, let your love incline</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/lalunadiserenere/pseuds/lalunadiserenere'>lalunadiserenere</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>16th Century CE RPF, Historical RPF, The Spanish Princess (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas Presents, F/M, Flirting, Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Not Beta Read, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Paris (City), Rating May Change, Romantic Gestures, That Neither Thinks Is Mutual, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, gotta resolve that tension, i blame this on tsp!charlie's yearning, mf has it bad</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 10:09:24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,519</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27943481</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/lalunadiserenere/pseuds/lalunadiserenere</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It's just a weekend away, Charlie tells himself, visiting an old friend he doesn't see often because they both lead busy lives.<br/>It doesn't matter that Mary - who he's known all his life - is beautiful and funny and lives in his heart all hours of the day.<br/>That ever since they danced at her sister's wedding, all he has wanted to do is kiss her.<br/>That he had a plan until Harry (complicated, magnetic, her brother) looked up at him with a storm in his eyes and made him promise not to fall in love with her. </p><p>It'll be fine.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Charles Brandon/Mary Tudor of France</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>sweet, let your love incline</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>can’t really say i’m writing for myself but a lot of stuff like characterisation etc is just me taking bits from history/tsp or going ‘that'd be a bit fucked in present day huh’ while googling stuff.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>
    <em>August 2016</em>
  </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The first time he sees her that year, in person, she’s walking up the aisle beside a man she barely knows. And when they spot each other, she beams at him. Mary gives Charlie a little wave as she passes by, arm in arm with one of Jamie’s cousins, on her way to join the other bridesmaids at the right of the altar. They’re a collection of ruby-red dresses, picked to match the green and crimson Stewart tartan. He can’t help but think of Christmas, especially alongside bridal white. On most of the ruddy, pale Stewarts, the colours clash - as they do on Harry, unfortunately, standing opposite with the groomsmen. Despite Mary’s own red hair, it suits her. He wonders if its the contrast of ivory skin and cherry-coloured satin, or in how she carries herself, head held high and back impeccably straight, the posture of a queen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s there because of her. She swore she’d not be a bridesmaid, matched with some cousin for symmetry’s sake, if he wasn’t. Of course, she didn’t mean it - she wouldn’t derail her sister’s entire wedding for him. And she did always get her way. So, here he is, somewhere outside Edinburgh, in a kilt as per Stewart instructions. She’d even picked out the tartan to match her dress. When the bagpipes strain out the first bars of the wedding march, the guests stand, watching Henry escort Meg to the altar. All eyes flock to the bride, although what catches Charlie’s is the glint of Arthur’s confirmation medal on Meg’s wrist. With each Tudor child present, they begin.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>At the reception, held in the hotel they stayed in the night before, he finds himself on a table alongside James’ great aunt, a workmate and two York cousins. They make polite conversation after the speeches and meal end, and with that comes the question he’s waiting for:</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And how do you know Meg?” asks the great aunt, milky blue eyes studying him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a long story. One with car crashes and ten year old orphans, uncles and stepfathers disagreeing about wills and custody - and at every turn are the Tudors. It was Henry and his legal knowledge that helped keep Charlie’s inheritance in trust until he turned 18. Henry ensured he stayed with his late uncle Thomas, recommended his own sons’ private school, covered some of the fees with dividends from his mother’s investments. But all he knew as a child was this strange man and his even stranger children. And that one of them, Harry, was his best friend. They played knights and dragons together, rode bikes, dressed up as Power Rangers, went to school and university and parties together. By now, Harry’s stitched into the fabric of Charlie’s life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m a family friend.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you do?” asks the workmate - Alex, he remembers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I work in sound production. In the music industry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, so with the brother?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, we collaborate sometimes.” ‘Sometimes’ means that by day, he edits clients’ demos and tracks, and in the evening he’s Harry’s bassist/occasional backing singer-pianist-songwriter/preliminary producer/emergency roadie. He averages four hours’ sleep a night - but it’s worth it. Or will be, soon. And after five years of jumping from internship to job to audition with no room to breathe, its practically relaxing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Satisfied, the conversation pivots to Alex, to his legal practice, his childhood in a place called Elgin. In the corner of his eye, Charlie spots a red blur zipping about the room. He watches as Mary flings her arms around Cat, mouths moving a mile a minute. Catalina, daughter of two famous Spanish opera singers, met Harry a year ago at a label meeting. The meeting went… less than fine, but at least Harry left with something. He turns his attention back to the table, not wanting to be rude, until the conversation lulls and the Yorks set off to mingle. That’s when she strikes. Hands hovering over his eyes, her elbows land on his shoulders. His ears fill with a pleasantly tipsy giggle and he relaxes into his seat, smiling. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hello, horse.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She smacks his stomach softly, a knee-jerk reaction to the years old nickname. As a boy, he called her ‘mare’, two syllables being one too many, until his uncle pointed out the word meant horse. There was no going back after that. He gets up and she pulls him into a hug, and away from the table.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You clean up well,” she says in a playful voice, eyeing him over. Her hand flicks the kilt, a knowing smile gracing her face, “I especially like this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you, though I can’t take all the credit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She rolls her sparkling eyes, tossing ginger curls over her shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How’s Lily?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He inhales sharply. “We broke up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something sympathetic passes over her face before her smile turns wry. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She get sick of you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nah, it was mutual,” he lies. He’d rather be amputated without anaesthetic than talk about Lily Lisle. “Anyway, how did the interpreting end up?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh! Yeah, it’s… interesting, to say the least. But, uh, don’t think it’s quite for me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, you’ll think of something.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mary!” calls her aunt Cecily, sauntering over on high heels. “How are you, dear? How is Paris, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>the Sorbonne</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Sorbonne Nouvelle</span>
  </em>
  <span>, a voice in his head corrects. Mary’s voice. Before she left last September, she’d taken great pains to explain the difference - the institutions were associated but separate, one being younger. As Mary and her aunt chat, Harry appears, brandishing a sour expression and two beers from the open bar.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I feel like a Christmas elf,” he declares, handing Charlie one, shoulders shifting beneath the jacket. “He did this deliberately, I bet.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bit of a stretch.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But not compromising on anything?” </span>
  <em>
    <span>It is </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>Jamie’s</em>
  </b>
  <em>
    <span> wedding</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Charlie thinks. And he’s a very proud Scot, politically so. He shrugs. “And he wants us to ceilidh or something, I’ve no idea what that even is.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As if summoned, a band takes the stage, pipes and fiddle and bodhrán ready. The fiddle player steps up to the mic, introduces them as ‘Too Trad Too Furious’, and concludes,</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So grab a girl, guy, whatever - anything with a pulse and two legs will do, long as they say yes - we’ll start with the Gay Gordons!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harry snickers. Charlie refuses to acknowledge the laugh he’s suppressing, until Harry glances his way and sets it loose. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re a fucking child.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You laughed too.” He nods toward the other tables, “I’m off to get Cat.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No sooner has he left his side than Mary sidles up and nudges Charlie in the arm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wanna dance?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Feigning obligation, he asks, “Do I have a choice?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Absolutely not,” she replies, absurdly serious, before a grin bursts across her face and they share a chuckle. He follows her to the circle of guests forming on the dance floor, in front of an older couple already in a starting position and, after sneaking a look in, decide to copy. Standing shoulder to shoulder, his right arm stretches around her, her hand curling into his. Strangely, a breath catches in his throat as her fingertips brush softly against his palm. Their left hands clasped together, he’s hyper-aware of her body tucked close to his, of the scent of her shampoo and perfume - a dizzyingly bright flurry of roses, peony, iris and violet - of his heart pounding. His thoughts spiral, latching onto the people milling around them as explanation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He leans in and whispers, “I hope you know I’m going to make a fool of myself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ll be fools together then,” she responds, her thumb running across the back of his fingers. The gesture ties him to her, to where their skin meets. His concentration breaks when Catalina and Harry worm their way in front of them and copy their position. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I see she’s twisted your arm,” Harry says, peeking over his shoulder, “Go easy on him, Mary, he’s delicate.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll take good care of him, don’t worry.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The fiddle player walks the guests through the steps first, Charlie listening as she counts them out, feet moving two paces ahead of his. One lands on his toes as the direction of dance switches and he snaps his smarting foot back, quipping with a nervous chuckle, </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This isn’t what I’d expect from a Just Dance champion.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Clearly we didn’t have the Scottish dance DLC.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He spins her for 8 blessedly incident-free beats before moving into a brief waltz, his hand prickling as he takes her waist. The walkthrough ends with him almost tripping on her ankle as they return to the beginning position. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Seems easy enough,” she says breezily.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, practically painless.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her brow furrows, eyes searching his face, “Are you OK?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am, I’m just messing with you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>While the band starts up, the fiddle player hurriedly introduces the concept of a dance becoming progressive - where one partner moves onto the person in front after a turn.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Very progressive,” Harry jokes, half-drowned out by music. It gets easier, he’ll admit, the longer it goes on. They adjust to each other, fall in sync. And then they separate. Each partner he has is obliging, patient with his inexperience, as they progress through bar after bar of seemingly endless spinning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Mary reappears, her hands fit in his like the final piece of a puzzle. Suddenly weightless, they float together, pushed closer by the throng of people surrounding them. As he clutches her waist, her arm is anchored across his shoulder blades, her head hiding away in the crook of his neck, their chests touching. Warmth radiates through him, tangled up in her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Someone taps on his shoulder, and he turns to see the elderly lady standing without a partner. He and Mary share a look and a brief, awkward laugh, and she squeezes his hands as she slips out of his arms. </span>
</p><p><span>When it ends, the band gives them a second to breathe before beginning a whistle stop tour of country dances. Musically, he knows the difference between a reel and jig, but like this they blend into one another. Eventually, calls for the first dance send him back to his seat, and Meg and Jamie have the floor to themselves. They sway gently to ‘Can’t Help Falling In Love’, foreheads touching, and he can’t watch for too long. His fingers pick at the hem of his kilt. He glances at the top table, where Henry and Liz gaze at one another as only married couples can. Harry and Cat loiter nearby, her head on his shoulder.</span> <span>His eyes find Mary, sitting with the other bridesmaids, her tilted head in her arms, folded on the table in front of her. Her skin shines like moonlight in the low light, a serene smile adorns her lips, a dreamy expression in her eyes. His throat dries, and he reaches for his beer.</span></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>After the bride and groom take off, and the party fizzles out, they head to bed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My feet are killing me,” Mary says, throwing a pointed glance his way. Charlie rolls his eyes and assumes the piggyback position. Thus, while Harry walks arm in arm with Catalina up the stairs, he carries Mary, avoiding how it feels to hold her. She threads the red and white roses of her bouquet into his hair, to ‘beautify her noble steed’. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There,” she says, a slight slur in her voice, pleased with her work, “Cat, what d’you think?¿Es muy guapo, no?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Catalina surveys him shrewdly, “Much improved.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Agreed,” Harry adds, “it suits you, Charlie.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll bear that in mind.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tu es toujours beau,” Mary whispers, and he blushes. His French is terrible but that he knows. The group splits at the end of their corridor, bidding one another good night.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shall I convey you to your room, miss?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, if you would be so kind,” she demurs. They traipse along the corridor, him ignoring the ache in his lower back, quietly singing a song from earlier. Or attempting to, not knowing any Gaelic. They reach her room and she hops off his back, fishing her room key out her pocket.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m afraid I must love and leave you, I’ve a date with a massive bed and some leftover cake.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And who am I to stand in the way of true love?” he jokes, leaning against the doorframe. She laughs quietly, looking up at him with an indescribable gaze, then leans up on her tiptoes and kisses his cheek. Her lips touch the place where it hurts from smiling all night. Stunned, he stands rooted to the spot as his skin sets alight. His mind reaches for words, action - anything - missing the way her smile fades.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, good night.” And with that, she enters her room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good night, horse,” he says to the empty corridor, emerging from his trance and making his way back to his own room. As he walks, he picks the flowers out his hair and collects them in his hands, feeling the soft petals against his palm. Once inside, he sets them on the bedside table. He undresses, crawls into bed, and googles ‘how to preserve flowers’ on his phone.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He wakes the next morning to his phone buzzing relentlessly, to frantic knocking on the door, the noise hurling him out of bed and scrambling for his t-shirt and underwear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Charlie, wake up!” Harry calls, underscored by knocking. He picks up his shirt, tossing it on, as he answers the door and comes face to face with a dressed yet dishevelled Harry. He holds a plastic suit cover over his right shoulder, his duffel bag over the left, and his face is flushed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We need to go,” he pants, “Radio 1 - had a cancellation - we’re due on this evening.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He freezes. “Tonight?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yep! Get dressed, we’ve gotta go!” He takes off down the corridor. Charlie lets the door slam close and begins collecting things together. He stuffs the clothes on the floor back into their own suit cover, throws on trousers, and shoves his belongings into his bag, the flowers from last night landing beneath his shampoo bottle and a spare pair of shoes. Then he zips it shut, shrugs it on, and runs. He finds Harry downstairs, interrupting his parents and siblings with hugs and rambled excuses as they eat breakfast.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ll see each other soon, ok?” Harry tells Mary. Moving from her embrace to his mother’s, he spots Charlie in the doorway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just dump that with mine,” he says, pointing to the kilt slumped on the back of a chair. Charlie does, coming within a metre of Mary. Their eyes meet and to his surprise, she seems forlorn. The reason why comes back to him like a boomerang to the head. Instantly he feels his cheeks burn, forgets every word he’s ever learnt. She offers him a half-hearted smile. Her mouth opens as if to speak when Harry grabs Charlie by the shoulder and leads him away, leaving him only able to wave goodbye. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Next time I see her</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he tells himself, </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’ll say something</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is two years before they’re that close again.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>chapter title: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3DiU5Qq6Ba0; translation: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mairi%27s_Wedding#Lyrics</p><p>hope you liked this!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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